


i have given in (to wanting you)

by honeyteeth



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Holding Hands, Homophobic Language, Kissing, M/M, Movie Night, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pining, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is Whipped, Secrets, Slurs, Tenderness, ben has a crush on beverly but she likes him back :-), coupla cutie pies........., eddie is also in love with richie but does richie know that?, obviously not. that man is an idiot..., soft stuff...., the f slur is mentioned once but i just wanna give u a heads up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyteeth/pseuds/honeyteeth
Summary: Movie night. Nothing big, right? Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrack have had billions of movie nights. They've snuggled beneath the same blanket, shared beds, shared food, slept curled up next to one another.But something is different, now.





	i have given in (to wanting you)

**Author's Note:**

> me, before watching the clown movie: i will not hyperfocus on this, it will not become my new hyperfixation. it's just a movie, i dont even know what's to like about it! i'll be good, i wont latch onto it emotionally, it's fine
> 
> me, not even two minutes after watching the clown movie: ok so funny story

Richie was cold. Freezing, even in the warmth of the summer sun, his whole body racked with shivers, water from the quarry still dripping down his legs and arms. His clothes stuck to the wet parts of his body, clinging to his skin quite uncomfortably, and his hair flat out  _ refused  _ to dry, still dripping wet even after he had shaken it out and wrung it tightly with his hands. 

Despite his sogginess, he was grinning, teeth chattering together as he walked with the rest of the Losers back to his house. Two weeks into summer and they were having their fifth movie night, complete with junk food and the latest playboy which he had nabbed from his father’s sock drawer. His parents were going out of town today, and they-- for  _ some reason--  _ trusted Richie alone with the house. Like idiots.

“Hey, Rich,” Bev began, looking down at her legs which had a thin layer of silt from the quarry. “you don’t mind if I rinse off when we get to your place, do you?” she adjusted her bag that contained a change of clothes and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, pushing her bangs back with her left hand. Ever since she had started staying with her aunt, she was allowed to go to movie nights and sleepovers with the rest, finally able to spend real time with her friends now that her dad was practically out of the picture.

“Be my guest, little lady,” Richie offered his best 1940s show host voice, elbowing her in the ribs. 

“I am  _ begging  _ you to s-s--” Bill scrunched his nose a little, lingering on the letter ‘s’ for a moment or two. “--to stop,” he finally managed to spit out, furrowing his eyebrow, throwing a pout Richie’s way. 

“Sorry, Billy my boy!” Richie grinned, clapping his palm to Bill’s back. “Is this more to yuh likin’, gov’na?” He laughed as Bill smacked him gently over the head, rolling his eyes. 

“Anyways,” Stan interrupted, sounding annoyed. Everybody knew he wasn’t, though. His mouth was quipped into the promise of a smile, eyes soft, no real bite behind his tone. “I think tonight we should try and get through  _ The Thing _ , we’ve only ever gotten about thirty minutes in before chickening out.” There was a moment of complete synchronization where everybody voiced their agreement all at once.

The sun was still quite high in the sky, creeping slowly along, beaming bright directly over the Losers’ heads. The cicadas were busy singing, filling the air with the constant hum of bug mating calls. Yeah, mating calls. They wake up, scream, fuck, then die. What a life to live! 

“‘Chee, I’m still sleeping over, right?” Eddie asked, bumping his shoulder into Richie’s to get his attention; it worked like a charm, as much as Richie hated to admit.

“Of course, I would never let a tasty little morsel like you leave my sight!” Richie crooned, wrapping an arm around Eds’ shoulders and pulling him closer, grinning the most annoying grin he could possibly muster, reaching up with his free hand to pinch Eddie on his cheek (which was surprisingly soft). 

“Shut up, asshole!” 

“The morsel is feisty! Just like his mother,” Richie flicked a faux tear from his eye, faking a sniff, earning him a kick in the shin from Eddie. He barked in surprised laughter, hopping on one foot for a moment-- not because it hurt, but to put on a show. 

Richie found that his hair still wasn’t completely dry when he arrived home and was made especially aware of it when he stepped inside and was greeted with the steady blast of the air conditioner, cranked down to 70 degrees by none other than Mr. Wentworth Tozier. The man  _ always  _ had to have the house ice cold, especially during the summer, and it was heavily advised that you avoid the Tozier residence unless you have a sweater or a blanket to throw over yourself.

Not even two feet into the house, Bev called dibs on the shower, and the rest were stuck waiting around Richie’s living room. Sprawled out across the old, soft brown couch, bundled up on the chair, sitting criss-cross on the floor as Richie attempted to tango with the ungodly thermostat. It was mostly broken, and in the end, he discovered that he had  _ no  _ idea how to get the temperature to stay warm, so he left it at the teeth-chattering 70 his dad had left it at. That was gonna take a toll on the electric bill, wasn’t it? 

Not that Richie really cared. He just heard his dad talk about it a lot. He was sixteen and didn’t have any reason to care about paying bills just yet. 

“Mi casa su casa,” he proclaimed to the entire room, officially welcoming the rest of the Losers as he flopped into the chair beside Eddie, squishing the two of them together. Their arms pressed firmly, and for a split second, there was calm comfort. And then, of course: 

“Richie! Dammit, there’s a  _ whole fucking couch  _ over there!” Eddie shrieked, trying to push Richie out of the chair with his feet. 

“But Bill and Mike are on it!” 

“Yeah, and that couch was built for like  _ six people!  _ This is a chair-- my chair!” 

“But it’s my house!” 

“You just said it was our house, too, like, a fucking second ago! Get off, dipshit!” Eddie continued pushing Richie’s lower back with his legs, using his arms to shove him. Richie only laughed, and Stan rolled his eyes so hard Richie swore they would fall right to the back of his head. 

“Do you two ever shut up?” Bev’s voice called from the entryway to the kitchen. She was in her pyjamas, hair rolled up into a towel that sat atop her head like a crown as she rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out a Yoo-hoo. Ben looked transfixed. There were stars in his eyes, falling from his mouth as it hung open slightly, pouring from his flushed cheeks. He was  _ whipped.  _ Richie tossed him a glance, waggling his eyebrows, and Ben looked at the carpet, suddenly very interested in its texture, red to his ears. Eddie was sniggering quietly beside Richie, evidently having given up fighting him over the chair and instead settling into a more comfortable position with his legs draped over Richie’s, back resting against the arm of the chair. Richie’s hand floated over to rest comfortably on his thigh, which was mostly exposed due to his dorky red shorts. His legs were tacky with water still. Or maybe Richie’s palms had grown sweaty. 

“Can I give my personal opinion?” Richie piped up as Palmer from  _ The Thing _ ’s face slowly began to transform into a bloody, pulpy mess, eyes bugging from his head, oodles of fake orange-red blood gushing from his splitting head to reveal rows of razor teeth and a prehensile tongue. 

“No,” Stan spoke, without looking away from the TV as horrors revealed themselves gruesomely on it.

“Don’t you think it’s stupid that the Thing didn’t just kill everyone the minute it had a chance?” Richie asked anyway, trying to distract Eddie, who was moving progressively closer, looking disgusted, looking pale, looking like he was going to throw up or cry or both at any given moment. He didn’t do well with gore at all, especially after Pennywise, and as he turned to face the other direction, Richie automatically pushed the back of the frightened boy’s head into his shoulder, curling a strand of dark brown hair with his index finger. “I mean,  _ obviously  _ it’s powerful enough. Look at those jaws!” He exclaimed, making biting motions with his own teeth for emphasis as Eddie trembled into his side, snaking his shivering arms around Richie’s waist, drawing his legs closer until he was practically on Richie’s lap, a heap of panic and shaking and fast-paced breathing. His mother would have called it an asthma attack. Richie knew it was panic, though; he recognized the signs, knew the feeling all too well. So as the rest of the Losers groaned at him to  _ please  _ shut up, eyes still glued to the movie, he stroked Eddie’s hair and ran his fingers up and down the length of his spine and murmured little jokes and anecdotes and asked what Eddie wanted on the pizza they were going to order.

(He wanted jalapenos and Richie said he did, too). 

“Eds,” Richie whispered, gently pushing at Eddie’s shoulders, who looked up. His lips had color again, his eyes less glazed. He was doing better. But now the movie was over, and if anybody turned around to find the two of them snuggling on the same chair, if anyone caught Richie holding Eddie close, comforting him, mumbling into his hair like he had done the rest of the movie, they would know his secret. 

_ Don’t touch the other boys, Richie, or else everybody will know about your secret. Your dirty little secret. _

He inhaled sharply, pushing Eddie a little harder, his heart constricting in his chest when Eddie only squeezed his waist tighter. 

“Is it over?” Eddie whispered to him, refusing to budge, too afraid to move. “The movie-- the scene with all of the uh.” He swallowed hard, and Richie saw his Adam’s apple bob. “The blood. That’s over? Is it- is-- is it?” His voice wobbled, and he was clearly still struggling, clearly still panicking, clearly still in need of someone to turn to. But Richie couldn’t help him anymore. Because Beverly was reaching for the lightswitch and Stan was starting to get up for more popcorn and Bill was about to turn around to reach for the phone and order that pizza Richie had whispered to Eddie about earlier. So with one last push, a little firmer this time he nodded. 

“Yeah, Spaghetti. Yeah. It’s done, the credits just finished rolling,” Richie confirmed quietly, giving him a solid pat on the shoulder. For a moment, Eddie’s eyes grew soft, and the cusp of a genuine smile rested on his lips. He relaxed for a moment, eyes flicking across Richie’s face in a way that made him more self-conscious than he had ever been in his entire life.

“Alright. Okay, thanks ‘Chee,” Eddie finally said warily, features still gentle. 

“What are you two lovebirds whispering about?” Bev appeared behind the chair, a small pile of M&Ms dumped into her palm. Her hands were already beginning to turn different colors, little splotches of orange and red. 

“Sorry that you missed the action, Bev,” Richie said immediately, as his heart jumped into his throat, waggling his eyebrows as he took a blue M&M from her hand and popped it into his mouth. “I was just giving Eds the same treatment I give his mom, yaknow? A little bit of Richie Tozier lovin’,” 

Eddie looked a little disgusted as he shoved himself off of the chair, out of Richie’s lap. It wasn’t an act, though; he seemed genuinely upset. Something like disappointment or sadness or  _ something _ etched across his face, but Richie couldn’t read him fast enough-- he couldn’t drop the act, he had to keep cool.

“Literally never say that ever again,” Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he reentered the living room, bowl of freshly popped popcorn cradled in his left arm. “I’m serious. That was awful,” 

“Stan the man, you want some, too? Come get a taste,” Richie puckered his lips, making little kissy noises as he stood up, reaching for Stan with outstretched arms, who threw a few pieces of popcorn at him. 

“Beep beep, Richie!” Stan yelled, but he was laughing, still throwing popcorn, still backing away from Richie’s arms, backing right into a wall. “Beep beep, beep beep! Beep fucking  _ beep!”  _ He hollered, laughing so hard that he snorted when Richie leaned in and pressed the most annoying, loud, disgustingly emphasized smack right on his cheek.

“Mwwwwwuah!” 

“Get a r-r--oom, would’ja?” Bill laughed from where he sat on the couch, still not quite ready to untangle himself from his blanket cocoon. Mike was chuckling lowly, and Ben just looked confused as Stan mussed up Richie’s hair with his free hand, noogying him hard enough to make his head bobble back and forth. But Richie’s grin nearly dropped to the floor when he turned to see Eddie on the couch, not the chair, smoothing the pad of his thumb over his nails one by one, eyes low. 

As the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky, creeping towards the horizon with each passing minute, everyone had completely forgotten that they were supposed to be watching  _ E.T,  _ instead opting to sit on the floor, leaning against the front of the couch, lying against each other’s shoulders as they talked about everything unimportant that sixteen-year-olds should talk about. 

Eddie was sitting opposite to Richie, not even making eye contact, expression still far away. He didn’t look angry. He  _ wasn’t  _ angry. But it was something else, something that Richie couldn’t  _ read  _ and he didn’t know why. He’s always been able to read Eddie Kaspbrack like a book, so why was it so different now? Why didn’t he recognize that expression-- yet at the same time, knew it so well? Understood each line on Eddie’s face, knew the  _ exact feeling,  _ but at the same time didn’t? It was eating him alive, really, making him anxious, making him buzz, his skin growing hot and itchy from nerves. He was suddenly very grateful for his father’s love of the air conditioner. 

“Stan, I’m pretty sure that girl from English class is into you,” Ben smiled, sitting next to Beverly, their hands almost touching, pinkies a hair's breadth away from each other. 

“Really? Susan Grant?” Stan snorted, taking a sip of his Dr. Pepper. 

“You’re such a c-c--chh--” Bill began, laughing as he stumbled over his words. Nobody finished for him. Nobody interrupted. His stutter was actually getting better-- in small steps, yes, but it was getting better. “--chh--ch-- a charmer!” He grinned, and Stan only rolled his eyes, throwing a cashew at him. 

“A real stud muffin,” Beverly agreed, Ben nodding along, laughing. 

“Oh, shut up. I don’t like Susan at all, and I seriously could have sworn she hated my guts,” 

“Please, how could anyone hate that handsome face?” Richie winked, earning a collective laugh from everybody. Everybody except Eddie. His heart seized.  _ Why wasn’t Eddie laughing?  _

“Whatever,” Stan said between giggles. “ _ I’m  _ not interested, not even slightly; I have better things to worry about,” 

“Like your weird bird fetish?” Mike asked. The group burst out laughing, Stan included, though his grin was paired with the classic Stanley Uris eye roll. Once again, Eddie was silent, still looking at his hands.

To be fair, Richie would do the same thing. Look at Eddie’s hands, that is. They were so petit, so soft, wonderfully cared for with no hangnails or stubby fingernails. His cuticles were very taken care of, nails strengthened from the supplement gummies his mother had him take. He used this lotion on his palms, on his knuckles, on the joint of his wrist, and it smelled like freshly washed sheets (somehow). It made Eddie’s hands feel like velvet. 

But this was  _ Eddie  _ staring at his own hands, nervous and upset about something that Richie still couldn’t place. Was he bitter that Richie wasn’t really there for him when he was still panicking after the movie? Richie couldn’t  _ help it.  _ If he kept holding him the way that he was, everybody would have figured out just how much Eddie meant to him. They would laugh, make fun of him. Or, even worse, they would get disgusted. They would leave, one by one, as if he were a  _ disease.  _ Eddie included-- he would be the most disgusted out of all. 

Richie had to keep his secret. His dirty, sinful, disgusting little secret. Even though it tore up his insides, left him shattered, he could never tell a soul. Because he would die if he did, and that’s just it. That’s what happens to gay boys in small towns. 

That’s what happens to fags.

The sun was really starting to set, now, having crept below the horizon, bathing the world in the last moments of golden light, and Ben was the first to leave. His mom had called Richie’s home phone, explaining that Ben needed to come home in order to go to a family reunion the following day. 

“Gross, you have to go to those things?” Richie grimaced, setting the phone back onto its receiver with a soft  _ click.  _ Ben sighed, nodding.

“Yeah, Grammy makes me go. She says it's a good way to teach me about family values, all that garbage,” he sighed, shrugging his shoulders and gathering his tennis shoes from the entryway. 

“Well, we’ll miss you when you’re gone,” Bev offered, walking up to him, pyjama-clad and barefoot with her hair a mess from a recent wrestling match with Richie (she won. And now Richie was sporting a very tender spot in his shoulder where she had pressed her knee). Gently, she leaned over, giving him a side hug, bumping the side of her head to his before pulling away with a sweet smile. Ben shone like a goddamn lighthouse, cheeks tickled pink, eyes sparkling. 

“Y-uh--yeah,” he stammered, grinning sheepishly as he adjusted his bag that held his wet clothes from the quarry. “I’ll see you guys later,” he waved one last time, exiting and closing the door carefully. Beverly smiled this  _ tiny  _ ass smile, a very private one, shy and kept to herself. 

“Stop fucking  _ toying  _ with him, Jesus Bev, the poor kid almost had an aneurysm!” Mike laughed, clapping a hand to her shoulder. 

“I’m not toying with anybody! I just… Don’t know how to ask him out,” her gaze dropped to the floor, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Just tell him you want to get a milkshake with him or something and you’re golden,” Eddie piped up. He had been a bit more lively, a bit more talkative, much to Richie’s relief, but there was still something…  _ off _ . 

“Y--yeah, Bev. He’s l-l… like, in love w--with--with you,” Bill grinned as he walked into the kitchen to grab another soda. There was a wave of murmured agreements among the group. 

From the corner of his eye, Richie caught Eddie staring at him, but when he turned to confront him, the other snapped away, joining Bill in the kitchen instead. Richie’s heart dropped to his stomach, and he felt icy all over. It was going to be like this  _ all night,  _ wasn’t it? Eddie was going to sleep over, and it was going to be awkward and quiet and filled to the brim with this god-awful tension. And there wasn’t a thing Richie could do about it. Every time he attempted to spark up conversation with his best friend, he would get ignored, or there would be a short answer and then nothing else. 

They’ve had their spats in the past, of course, all friends do. But something about this was so different, so foreign; it didn’t feel like a spat. There was no anger behind anything Eddie said. In fact, he would even continue to tease Richie, poking fun at him like always, laughing along with the rest of the group as it slowly whittled down as the sun set further and the moon began to peek over the horizon. 

A movie and a half later, Stan was saying his final farewells, leaving to walk Bill home after Mike left with Beverly just an hour before. Richie had already asked if either of them could stay, ashamed at how desperate he seemed to have anybody else around. However, Stan wasn’t having it. At all. 

“You could always stay the night, you know,” Richie insisted, perched anxiously on the kitchen counter, drumming his fingernails against the surface, grinning sheepishly. “Eddie wouldn’t mind, would you? Unless, of course, you just want to spend some quality alone time with me,” he threw in a little joke, a small poke to Eddie in hopes of getting some sort of reaction. 

It worked, for the most part. Eddie picked up a pillow off of the couch and threw it at Richie, hitting him on the side of his head, skewing the glasses on his face as he broke out into a series of giggles and rather embarrassing snorts. 

“I need to be getting home,” Stan said matter of factly, expression flat. “I want to wake up early, there are a few birds around my backyard this season that I’ve been meaning to photograph.” he slipped on his shoes, not bother with the laces, opposite to Bill who was fumbling to retie his shoes after tugging them hastily onto his feet. “Also,” he began, planting his hands on his hips. “I smell like shit. I haven’t showered since I got back from the quarry, and I’ll be honest, it isn’t pleasant. At all.”

“Y...eah, I kinda want to s...sho….shower, too. T-There’s mud in m...m-my hair,” Bill said, running his fingers through his shock of fawn brown locks for emphasis, grimacing as he did so. “I also p...p-promised my mom I’d be h-home,” 

Richie nodded, a little solemnly. He knew it was all bullshit-- their excuses as to why they were leaving. Stan  _ knew  _ something, something that Richie was far too afraid to confront him about, and Bill, though he may be oblivious to that exact matter at hand, probably got the memo that Stan had a plan. There really was mud in his hair, though, so maybe that contributed to it a little bit. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Stan waved them off, stepping out of the threshold, Bill close behind. He tossed Richie a look, one that made him squirm where he sat on the countertop, one that made him nervous down to his very core. He furrowed his eyebrows, averting Stan’s eye, before inhaling and pulling his best British accent to bid the two farewell. 

The door clicked softly shut, and the house fell eerily quiet. It was just Eddie and Richie, now. 

“So, Eds, shall we indulge in another movie?” Richie decided it would just be easier to ignore the tension, smiling over at Eddie who seemed… Much more relaxed than earlier. He had draped himself over the chair in the living room, legs swinging over the arm in lazy, back and forth motions, head resting on the other arm, expression sedate, arms lolling out wherever they pleased. 

“I guess, but I’m going to need you to shower first, I could smell you from across the room the whole night,” Eddie replied nonchalantly, fishhook catching in his eyebrow in the classic Eddie-Kaspbrack-Thinks-You-Are-Being-Disgusting-Right-Now face. Richie had seen it many times, and he broke out into a grin. 

“If you wanted to see me naked, you could have just  _ asked--”  _

Another pillow, this time hitting him smack in the middle of his face, sending his glasses flying clean off. Eddie was yelling at him, shrieking “Beep fucking beep!” but he was too busy howling with laughter. 

The steam helped to clear his head a little, and  _ yes,  _ he discovered, he smelled  _ terrible.  _ The quarry was never exactly a sanitary place to be, Eddie always described it as a “mating ground for parasites and bacteria,” to which Richie always replied with  _ some  _ sort of sex joke. Because come on.  _ Mating ground.  _

The silt was the kind that you could just melt into; you’d sink your bare toes into it and it would swallow you whole, soft against your soles, warm as it slowly crept up your ankles. The water was nice, too-- always shockingly cold, at first, but then you’d swim around for a little while. You’d swim and warm-up and then it was nice, really nice because the water would just be cool enough to contrast with your rising body heat. Of course, getting out, walking home, that was always pretty awful. Having to force on fabric over still-wet skin was a feeling that Richie would never get used to, and he always preferred to hang back on the rocks in order to dry off in the sunshine. 

The quarry was… Different for Richie than it had ever been for the others. Of course, it was still just a supersized swimming pool that  _ probably  _ had dead bodies in it at some point or another, but it really meant something, reminded him of when he first  _ realized.  _

As he toweled off, drawing a little smiley face on the mirror in the steam, he let his mind drift back to a few years ago. It was dark, far too dark for either he or Eddie to be out, but they were out anyways. Splashing each other in the quarry, drinking stolen bottles of beer, skinny dipping for the first time. Richie had never really noticed Eddie before, how soft he was, how his eyes glimmered and face shined. But he was drunk off of alcohol and moonlight and the waters of the quarry, and Eddie’s lips looked soft, his skin glistening with water. 

That night, they lay on the rocks together, still damp from swimming, clothes cast aside on a nearby branch. Arms outstretched, pinkie’s touching, eyes drinking in the stars from above. And Eddie told Richie that he knew his medications were placebos. Or, as he called them, in this timid voice, “gazebos.” Richie had corrected him, and Eddie didn’t argue. 

That night, Eddie admitted that maybe, just maybe, his mother was manipulating him, that she was lying to him about ever being sick. He said he was sick, he knew he was, but not with any physical disease. It was a different sick. And Richie knew what he meant, he knew  _ exactly what he meant,  _ but all he could do was stare hard into the constellations and squeeze Eddie’s pinkie with his own and whisper “ _ So am I.”  _

That night, Richie Tozier realized he had fallen for his best friend. And ever since then, in all of his attempts to scramble away from his feelings, he had only fallen deeper in love. 

Richie threw on his sleep shorts and a nice big sweater, black and green and snug at the wrists but baggy everywhere else. The night was cold, the house even colder, and it was near impossible to keep warm in short sleeves. 

“All yours, Spaghetti,” he called as he exited the bathroom after wiping up the water he had dripped onto the floor. 

“What took you so long? Were you jerking off in there or something,” Eddie asked loudly, full of way too much energy as always, flicking Richie on the nose as soon as he was within nose-flicking range. 

“Yes, if you really want to know. I was thinking of your mom,” Richie replied, shoving Eddie away with his hip and walking to the kitchen, ignoring Eddie’s horrified screech. “I’m gonna pick out another movie, do you have any preferences?” 

“No, pick what you like, just wait for me to get out,” 

“Sweet, there’s a porno hidden in my dad’s desk drawer, I’ll just pop that into the VCR player…” Richie made the gesture of slipping a tape into the player, adding a wink for emphasis.

“Beep beep, Richie!” Eddie yelled, flustered, eyebrows furrowed as he turned away with a huff. 

“You’re so cute when you’re angry!” Richie cooed and was met with the middle finger as Eddie stormed away. 

Right. Everything was back to normal, now. Regular bickering, usual banter. The tension from before was barely there anymore, and Eddie seemed much more relaxed, his anxiety evidently fading from his tiny body. 

Richie heard the shower turn on, the running of water, and all he could really do now was wait. So, instead of popping in a movie to watch, he flipped on cable TV, flicking the channels until he found some sort of late-night talkshow.  _ The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.  _ He wasn’t entirely sure who Jay Leno was, but he looked like some sort of political figure who had given up his position in order to tell sub-par jokes to celebrities. It was something you’d watch when you were too sick to go to school and had nothing else to do but lay on the couch. 

So he did just that, legs pulled up to his chest, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with his sleeves, hair slowly but surely drying off in the air conditioner. And then the bathroom door opened, and Richie craned his neck to look behind him as Eddie walked out, steam still curling in tendrils off of his skin. 

Richie imagined that he probably looked like Ben staring at Beverly, right about now. His eyes widened at the sight of his best friend, whose skin was flushed from the heat of the water, a pretty shade of rose pink bleeding in through his cheeks and the tips of his fingers and his elbows. Hair mostly dry but ruffled something awful, Eddie must have tried to towel it completely (probably in order to avoid pneumonia). Pyjama shorts soft cotton, peach pink, exposing basically  _ all  _ of his legs. His shirt was an old graphic tee, a Thundercats shirt from ages ago, big enough to be a tent on his tiny frame. He had socks on, too, looser than his regular tube socks but still with colored bands at the top.

In his most mundane outfit, he glowed like the moon in the house’s dim lights, and Richie’s heart stumbled over itself several times over. 

“What’re you watching?” Eddie asked, plopping right next to Richie on the couch, pressed together from shoulder to thigh. He smelled like something floral, something light. Like freshly washed cotton sheets, or the afternoon sun streaming in through a window with paper-thin curtains. 

“I don’t actually know,” Richie replied, a little breathless. “talk show, I think,” 

“I didn’t know you liked talk shows,” 

“I don’t think I do,”

“That’s okay.” Eddie chuckled, smiling gently up at Richie, who felt his lungs stop up right then and there. The tension was back, but it didn’t feel the same. It was different. So,  _ so,  _ different. 

“Look at the guy he’s interviewing,” Richie began, trying to distract himself from Eddie Kaspbrack sitting squeaky clean next to him, their bodies pressed up to one another. “he looks so coked-out,” 

“He probably is! I’ll bet that behind the curtains there’s just this big table of drugs. Like, coke and weed and uh… B12.” Eddie mimicked snorting a line, pressing his index finger to one nostril and loudly taking a solid sniff, raking his head through the air, coming up and shaking his head with faux adrenaline. 

“B12? Like, vitamin B12?” Richie snorted, and Eddie just shrugged.

“These talk shows are crazy, man! You never know what these guys are into,” 

“I bet they have so much vitamin D back there, it’s insane,” 

“Exactly!” Eddie laughed loudly, his shoulders shaking with giggles. The joke wasn’t funny. None of this conversation was funny. But Richie found himself breathless, curling an arm around Eddie’s waist to stabilize himself, resting his head against the other boy’s shoulder, snorting and guffawing until he didn’t even realize what made him laugh. 

They eventually came down from their giggle high, sighing deeply. Eddie’s eyes were absolutely shimmering, sparkling. Richie swore he could see the entire solar system in those eyes. The entire fucking milky way. The ocean, the sky, the universe. And his bones ached to get lost, to dive in and  _ drown  _ in them, suffocate himself in his love for his best friend. Succumb to his dirty little secret, let his disgusting little disease eat him away. Because oh, how good it would feel to just love Eddie with every single bit of himself, with every cell in his body. He was tired of aching. Of longing for something he knew he couldn’t have. It was exhausting keeping this facade up. 

“Maybe you’ll be up there one day, ‘Chee,” Eddie said quietly after a few moments. Richie looked at him, confused. “on the talk show. Or maybe on a different one. You know, because you’ll be famous,” he turned to face Richie, smiling sweetly. 

“Famous for what?” Richie laughed, ruffling Eddie’s hair, who scrunched up his face. 

“Watch it, asshole!” He groaned, swatting Richie away, who was too busy laughing to care. “ _ Anyways,  _ if you’d let me finish, I was going to say for being a famous comedian. That’s why you’ll be up there. Everyone will want to hear your jokes, they’ll put you on that talk show and then you’ll be known by the entire fucking world,” 

Richie hummed. “So, you think I’m that funny, Eds?” 

“God no, but for some reason, other people seem to eat up the shit you dish out,”

Richie laughed, open-mouthed and loud, shoving Eddie away from him playfully. “Come on! You don’t think I’m at least a  _ little  _ funny?” 

“No! Your jokes suck!” 

“You suck!” 

“Shut up!” 

“No!” Richie was shoving at Eddie now, who was fighting back, kicking at him with flailing legs, no real force behind either of their movements. Richie dove for Eddie and the two of them rolled off of the couch, onto the floor with a dull  _ thud,  _ the former hovering over the latter, his hands at either side of the other’s head. The laughter died down, and they were too exhausted to keep wrestling. So Richie rolled off of Eddie, both of them in the middle of the living room floor, lying flat on their backs. 

Arms outstretched.

Pinkies touching.

Chests heaving. 

Flashbacks to the quarry came rushing back, filling Richie to the brim with this sort of ache deep in the caverns of his chest, tugging at his ribs, filling his gut with emptiness, loneliness, even though he could hear Eddie’s soft breathing, could feel the warmth of his body as they lay there on the living room floor. 

Jay Leno was talking to a new guest, now, some jazzy music filling the background as he said something that was probably funny and charismatic, for it elicited a hearty laugh from the audience. The TV was humming softly with static. 

“Say, ‘Chee,” Eddie began, slowly, carefully. “I hope you know you’re my best friend. You know that, don’t you?” 

Richie dared to turn his head, facing Eddie’s eyes, which locked instantly onto his. He nodded, mouth cotton dry. 

“Yeah, well. As my best friend, I trust you a lot with stuff that I wouldn’t trust anybody else with,” 

“You too,” Richie managed shyly. Eddie nodded. 

“We’ve been here before, you know, Rich. Having this conversation,” 

Richie’s breath hitched, and his eyes widened slightly. So Eddie was thinking of the quarry, too. He was thinking of that night. His face was soft in the blue light of the TV, hair still slightly damp. His cheeks were still pink, too, but Richie couldn’t tell whether it was from the lingering steam of the shower or not. Their pinkies touched, and neither of them moved to separate them. 

“The quarry,” Richie breathed, and Eddie nodded. 

“Do you remember what I said?” He sounded pained and he drew his eyes away, looking back towards the ceiling, eyes flicking back and forth. Jay Leno said another funny thing, and the audience laughed again. “That I was sick. Do you remember? Not physically, though. Richie. ‘Chee, do you remember that?” 

“Of course,” Richie had to refrain from saying  _ I think about it every day, I think about the fact that you were so vulnerable and I almost kissed you and that night I fell so deep in love with you that I’m considering kissing you now.  _

“And you knew what I meant? You knew I was g... You kn-- you understood, you knew?” He choked. Tears shone like rhinestones in his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks, mournful raindrops against a soft skin window pane.

“Yeah, Eds, yeah. I knew. I understood.” 

Their pinkies curled, tightening, just like they had that night. Years ago. When Richie first fell. 

“And you said-- you said you too. Richie. You said you too, that you… Were sick, too,” Eddie whispered, and he was closer, their shoulders almost touching. His eyes flicked across Richie’s features, hiding beneath glistening eyelashes, shy and scared and anxious but so brave. Eddie Kaspbrack was so brave. The bravest boy Richie had ever met in his entire fucking life. 

“Yeah, yeah. I said me too. I said me too because it’s true, Eds. I am,” Richie breathed, using his free hand to cradle Eddie’s cheek in his palm. He counted five freckles beneath his eyes. One on his nose. One tiny birthmark just along his jawline.

“Richie that night I think I…” Eddie whispered. He could barely be heard. Another roar of laughter from the audience on the TV. “Do I have to say it?” 

“No. Because I did, too,” Richie murmured. Their noses brushed together, foreheads pressing into one another. Eddie’s eyes were closed, and he now held Richie’s face in his own free hand as they spoke, their voices low. “I didn’t say anything, though. I was too scared. Eds, I was so scared. So I didn’t let myself feel anything for so long but oh my god. Oh my god, Eds. I’m so in love with you it hurts. And I can’t… Pretend anymore.”

The room hummed with life. The talk show. The air conditioner humming. The sound of passing cars on the street, a cool summer’s breeze coming in through the open kitchen window. The quiet, careful breaths of the two lovers lying nose-to-nose on Richie’s living room floor, surrounded by blankets and pillows and bathed in the blue light of the television. 

“Eds I think I’ve given in. To loving you. To wanting you. To you,” Richie whispered, so quiet that he wasn’t even sure Eddie heard him properly. He snaked his arms around Eddie’s neck, pulling him closer, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, feeling the way his heart thrummed against the confines of his ribs like a caged bird. 

And then, in a small voice, so quiet, so tiny: “Richie can I…?” Eddie breathed. 

“You don’t even have to ask.” 

So Eddie shut up. And Richie felt his breath on his lips for a split second before the distance between them was closed and they were kissing, finally kissing. Eddie’s mouth was soft and careful as it pressed against Richie’s, moving in tandem, fingers dancing through his thick dark curls. 

It was all very uncoordinated and awkward-- neither of them had done this before. But it was sweet and it was soft and slow and  _ oh my god, Eddie Kaspbrack’s lips were so soft and he smelled so wonderful.  _ Richie pulled him closer, rolling onto his back as Eddie straddled his hips, careful not to put too much weight on his body. Even though he weighed the same as a fridge magnet. He was still so cautious. 

Richie’s fingers ran up and down the length of Eddie’s waist, earning a small shiver from the boy. Several times, Eddie had to stop for breath, instead pressing his nose into the crook between Richie’s eye and nose, whispering confessions. They sounded more like fucking hymns from an angel. Richie pushed his palm against Eddie’s chest, and he rolled off so they were once more laying down next to one another. Richie took this moment to kiss every inch of skin he could reach, every freckle he counted, even the little birthmark on his jawline. He was trembling, he was still afraid. Still nervous to touch. But Eddie’s hands were so soft and his cheeks so warm that it was  _ okay. _

Richie’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked the sleep from them, groggy. The TV was still on, though it was playing some sort of infomercial about some type of wonder mop. Said to pick up spills “lickety-split!”

And then, he felt the tickle of hair beneath his chin, the slow rise and fall of breathing, the warmth of another. He lifted himself slightly by his elbow, looking down to see Eddie, all swathed in morning light, glowing softly around the edges of his soft, sweet skin. He was pressed up against Richie’s chest, a slight pout on his lips, eyebrows furrowed. Richie’s arm was slung over his waist, hugging him close. 

It wasn’t a good dream. It was real. 

Tentatively, he pressed a kiss to the space between Eddie’s eyes, lingering just a moment before drawing back. 

“‘Chee…” Eddie murmured. 

“Yeah? What is it?” Richie couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his face, couldn’t stop the beating of his heart. 

“You have… Morning breath. ‘S really gross. Stale.”

Richie groaned, laughing and pulling Eddie into a tight hug, peppering his face is feather-light kisses as the other protested loudly, laughing right along. 

Richie was still afraid. He would probably always be afraid. Because he was a gay boy in a small town. But so was Eddie, and they were in it together. And that made it all seem so much less scary. 

**Author's Note:**

> nothing says guys bein dudes like sharing ur first kiss while jay leno hosts a late night talkshow in the background, amiright fellas?


End file.
